Late in the Mornings
I get to work late
most every morning.
I dance naked
in front of my full-length mirror.
Sometimes I dance hot and fiery
with wild abandon
to the passion of
the flamenco guitar.
Sometimes light and airy
to the exotic sounds
of trance music.
Sometimes I dance
flirtatiously
and sensually
to Arabian music.
Always, the music is loud.
Sometimes I dance
with Baby, my cockatoo,
on my shoulder.
Sometimes I accommodate
her presence
and restrict my movements
so she won’t fall.
Sometimes I don’t,
and she just has to hang on.
My morning dancing is
the most nonproductive,
apparently useless,
apparently vain,
apparently self-indulgent
thing I can do.
It is the most spirited
thing I do.
It reminds me who I was
before I started
“belonging”
to people.
It reminds me that,
ultimately,
I belong to myself.
I give exercise to the
flowing, graceful spirit
that is, sadly,
most times,
caged
and behaving properly.
Precious wild moments
out of the cage.
My dearest part,
play,
play wildly.
You are succinctly me.
My heartbeat.
My talent.
My beauty.
My grace.
Everything in me,
wild.
Everything in me,
free.
Caging hurts,
but must be.
You are not allowed to play
in front of others.
Be happy, most precious part,
I love you.
And will always
let you out.
I will be
late in the mornings,
and you will
dance wildly,
naked.
Flying
I often dream that I’m flying.
It is exhilarating.
In the dream,
I see people below me
walking around.
I tell them
to come and fly with me.
Without looking up,
they say,
“No one can fly.”
I tell them,
“Look up,
I’m flying.
You can fly too.”
But they won’t look up.
They just continue
to shake their heads, saying,
“No one can fly.”
I leave them
and continue flying,
going as fast and high
as I can.
Then, I wake up
and the same thing
happens in real life.
The Playground
We hold on tightly
to the monkey bars,
knowing
that if we fall
we will land
in a swamp full of alligators.
When we do fall,
we find it was
just soft sand.
Sometimes, when we swing,
we fall
hard.
We cry
hard.
Then we get up
and swing
again.
Some of us don’t
get back on the swing.
Sometimes, when we’re high
on the end of the seesaw,
the other guy gets off
and we bump to the ground.
Some of us get back on the seesaw,
wanting to feel that high spot again.
Others don’t.
Sometimes, someone pushes us on the swing.
Sometimes, we swing ourselves.
In both cases,
it’s possible to fall.
It’s also possible to swing very high
and spread our toes,
feeling the wind between them.
Sometimes, we play with other kids.
Sometimes, they hit us and run away.
Sometimes, they kiss us
and stay.
Sometimes, everyone on the playground
is mean.
Other times,
they’re nice.
Sometimes, it rains
and we have to go
home.
Coloring
If you find yourself
coloring outside the lines,
and if this makes you nervous,
make the lines wider.
Crap
I realized at one point that I have my crap and other people have theirs. When I came to this realization, it became immediately clear what was mine and what was theirs. I could actually see the crap line.
I decided that I would not cross that line, and I would not permit anyone else to cross the line either. I would not give them my crap and I would not take their crap.
Now, when someone tries to give me their crap, I refuse it. I have enough of my own. And every now and then, when I inadvertently try to give them mine, I immediately catch myself, apologize, and take mine back.
As it turns out, everybody’s crap is custom designed, and it doesn’t really fit well on other people.
The Dream
I had a dream.
The dream
gave me a bird’s-eye view
of the world
and its people.
From this distant,
higher view,
all the people
created one single,
beautiful, moving,
syncopated dance.
The rhythm of life flowed
through all of us.
We were dancing
to the same beat,
even though we were doing
different steps,
to give the dance life.
The people on the ground
thought
they were moving about
randomly
in massive chaos.
This was not true.
We thought
of ourselves as
bits
and
pieces.
None of us knew
how beautiful
we were
as a whole.
Hell
Spending time
writing
is like spending time
with
the most
wonderful
lover.
Spending time
trying to get my book
published
is like jogging
in the hottest part of hell
wearing a tight, itchy wool suit.
Standards
If you’re not getting enough
of what you want,
raise your standards.
You’ll get more.
Or,
lower your standards.
You’ll find
you have everything
you want.